n thick, but
there was none here. Elsewhere the windows had been closed and the air
heavy and musty, but here the soft night breeze was drifting in. On
a table, in odd conjunction, stood the remains of a meal, a roll of
bandages, and a half-burned candle; and finally, against the wall lay a
bed of a sort, a mattress piled with tumbled sheets.

Were these Marie-Jeanne's quarters? I did not know, but I doubted. I
turned to the girl.

"Miss Falconer," I said, attempting naturalness, "will you go back to
the guard-room and wait there a few minutes, please? I think--that is,
it seems just possible that some one is hiding in yonder. I'd prefer to
investigate alone if you don't mind."

I broke off, suddenly aware of the look she was casting round her. It
did not mean fear; it could mean nothing but an incredulous, dawning
hope. These signs of occupancy suggested to her something so wonderful,
so desirable that she simply dared not credit them; she was dreading
that they might slip through her fingers and fade away! I made a valiant
effort at understanding.

"Perhaps," I said, "you're expecting some one. Did you think that a--a
friend of yours might have arrived here before we came?" She did not
glance at me, but she bent her head, assenting. All her attention was
focused raptly on that bed beside the wall.

"Yes," she whispered; "a long time before us. A month ago at least." Her
eyes had begun to shine. "Oh, I don't dare to believe it; I've hardly
dared to hope for it. But if it is true, I am going to be happier than I
ever thought I could be again."

She made a swift movement toward the door, but I forestalled her.
Whatever that room held, I must have a look at it before she went. I
flung the door open, blocked her passage, and stopped in my tracks, for
the best of reasons. A young man was sitting on a battered oak chest
beneath a window, facing me, and in his right hand, propped on his
knees, there glittered a revolver that was pointed straight at my heart.

I stood petrified, measuring him. He was lightly built and slender. He
had a manner as glittering as his weapon, and a pair of remarkably cool
and clear gray eyes. His picturesqueness seemed wasted on mere flesh
and blood it was so perfect. Coatless, but wearing a shirt of the finest
linen, he looked like some old French duelist and ought, I felt, to be
gazing at me, rapier in hand, from a gilt-framed canvas on the wall.

In the brief pause before he spoke I gat